


Relapse Again (A Regular Decorated Emergency)

by iktwabrokenbone (apiculteur)



Category: Bandom, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Depression, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:37:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apiculteur/pseuds/iktwabrokenbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Tyler, it was too easy to lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relapse Again (A Regular Decorated Emergency)

**Author's Note:**

> i thought seeing them live would put my muse into overdrive, but instead i got a cold which i still have and i have hardly written since. but heres some kinda sad stuff which is mainly just tyler.
> 
> WARNING: this has some quite graphic self harm, and is centered around self harm and depression.
> 
> title from camisado by p!atd

For Tyler, it was too easy to lie. The forced smiles and stiff shakes of his head were too easily accepted, and they were becoming more believable every day. It's obvious no one really wanted to know the truth anyway. The truth was ugly and disgusting and miserable. It was far easier for them to laugh and roll their eyes, because how often did Tyler fall into rose bushes, or get scratched by a cat, or slip and cut himself with a knife when he's trying to cook? They let him tell them that he's so clumsy.

It became even easier when he was out of high school, no longer made to get changed for gym in a room full of people who gave the marks questioning looks. Over time they move down to his hips and his thighs, his stomach or his ankles. Somewhere hidden, so he can still wear short sleeves, make people think he's okay. He had always been scared, always had a certain sense of self preservation, the cuts on his wrists never ended up much deeper than cat scratches. His wrists looked clean after a couple months of leaving them unharmed in favour of other areas of his body.

It meant his hips weren't so lucky though. The skin was marred and ugly, and Tyler couldn't blame everyone for not wanting to admit this was the truth. Tyler didn't want to look at himself. Most of the cuts still weren't deep enough to leave scars, but they were mounting up. He was so disgusting. He wished he hadn't started, wished he hadn't ever decided that was the way to deal with his depression, because now he hated himself, hated the marks on his skin, the way he couldn't drop the blade, the way he had tried and it had only ended up with him in tears, angry at himself for giving in.

He wanted to stop, wanted that so much. It was an addiction though. He was numb and hollow, and when he did feel it tended to come out in sobs and self hatred and the temptation to go out to a bar, just to drink until he was stupid enough to hit on the straightest guy there, to feel the crack of a fist against his face sober him up. His attempts to stop were halfhearted, which he excused by telling himself he would only get himself into bar fights to compensate if he stopped. He probably would, but he still wished he would put down the razor, put away the knife- 'self defence', he had told his mom when she had asked about it during one of her visits. She looked sceptical, Tyler wasn't the type for weapons in drawers of the nightstand, but sometimes he needed it, needed to see the blood drip across his skin, the pain burning in his thighs, and smile through tears. _He deserved this_.

It wasn't until he started getting more into music, into performing on a stage, that he really decided to stop. He couldn't move around properly when his pants were rubbing painfully against the fresh cuts, sometimes reopening them and making them bleed through. So far, no one had noticed- or maybe they just hadn't commented- but he didn't want to deal with that.

He threw away as many sharp things as he could. He kept a razor, only because he didn't want a beard, and he kept it on the highest shelf, in a box with a lock on it. The key was in a DVD case for some terrible movie he had bought because it was on sale, which was always difficult to find amidst his shelf of DVDs. If he was feeling bad enough to want to hurt himself, he would probably be shaking quite a lot, enough to make it difficult to unlock it, maybe give him some time to think it through and stop himself while he was trying to find the key.

For the first few weeks, it was hard. He woke up early in the morning, tears clouding his vision, stuffing his fist in his mouth so he didn't shout at himself. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to be as ugly as he felt, he wanted people to look at him and know he was broken and horrible and useless, he wanted to get what he deserved.

He fell asleep crying, but the cuts on his legs were mostly healed, and he felt healthy, almost. _Cleaner_. It was strange, and slightly uncomfortable sometimes. He was accustomed to the evidence of his self abuse by now, but he kind of _liked_ it. When he wasn't too busy hating himself and regretting making it so difficult to get his hands on the razor, he preferred this.

***

Shaking hands. He shouldn't have agreed to go out. He was doing well though, he was a month clean, he felt sure he was better. But then he'd (stupidly) said he would go out to a bar with his friends, because he needed to go out more, and it was someone's birthday (a friend of a friend's, but it was a good enough reason) and he _wanted_ to.

It was a couple hours before everyone was somewhere between tipsy and drunk, and he was still sober. Alcohol had never helped him before, and he was sure now would be the worst time to take up drinking. A man stumbled up to him, a big grin on his face, smelling strongly of sweat and cheap beer.

"Can I buy you a drink, sweetheart?" he asked, swaying a bit too close to Tyler before righting himself.

A stiff smile and an awkward laugh. "No thanks," he said, stepping back and bumping into a stool. He pretended to notice someone, perking up and waving a bit. "Oh, sorry, my friend is over there. Bye." He didn't sprint, knowing he would only bump into someone, but instead walked as quickly as he could until he did find a friend.

"Hey, I'm kinda tired. I'm gonna get a taxi home, okay?" he said, not putting as much work into his smile as usual. She was a bit too drunk to pay attention to his expressions anyway.

She made an exaggerated sound of disappointment, though the exaggeration may have been unintentional. Tyler wasn't sure, he tried to stay away from drunk people usually. "You're gonna miss out on all the fun!" she exclaimed, but just rolled her eyes at his shrug. "Okay, I'll tell them if they ask. See ya, Ty."

She pulled him into a hug before he made a break for it. It wasn't until he got home that he noticed he wasn't focusing on anything, couldn't stare at his lock long enough to be able to fit his key in. Even if his eyes could focus, his hands would be shaking too much for him to manage. He had been through this before, too many times, and he knew he was having a panic attack.

The man in the bar had hardly done anything, just smelt bad and tried to hit on him, and then let Tyler leave when he had excused himself. Nothing had happened.

Tyler tried to close his eyes tightly enough for it to hurt, then opened them, blinked until they focused. He was fine. Nothing had happened.

He gripped his key tightly enough for his hands to stop shaking, the cold metal digging into his skin, and managed to fit it into the lock after only three attempts. His breathing still wasn't slow enough, still too jerky, like he was crying. There _were_ tears on his cheeks, but his shoulders were shaking for the same reason his hands were.

He took deep shaking breaths, trying to combat the feeling of his throat closing up. He was inside, he was safe, nothing could hurt him, he was safe and his throat felt like it didn't want any more air to pass through it, and his breathing was still stuttering, and the walls might just fall down on him.

He had been steady though, steady enough to fit a key into a lock. He thought about the black metal box, of the key in the DVD case. He though of the healing cuts on his legs, of how healthy he had felt lately. He thought of starting again.

He wasn't as steady when he rushed to pick up the DVD case, the key slipping from his grasp twice before he was walking quickly up the stairs, the knuckles of his clenched fist rubbing away the tears from his eyes. The box clattered to the floor when he tried to get it down, and one of the sobs he had been holding in escaped, short and too loud.

He was kneeling down on the floor, a metal box on his lap. He was okay. He was struggling to fit the key into the lock, scraping it against the metal repeatedly. He was okay. He was finally getting the key to fit, hardly registering the clicking sound as he turned it. He was okay. He was picking up the razor, not bothering to try take out the blades. He was okay. By now he knew exactly the right angle to make the blades press into his skin, feeling the sting as he dragged it sideways. He was okay. His skin bore three neat cuts, not as deep as he would've liked. He was okay. Blood was springing up to the surface, trickling down to his hand from the wound. He was okay. He was crying hopelessly, shaking enough for him to drop the razor. He was okay.

The razor lay on the ground, blades covered in his blood. This was familiar, the pain and the warmth of blood on his skin. This was horrible, the metallic smell and the quick flow from shallow cuts. He didn't want this, didn't want to need this. Maybe he _didn't_ need this.

He put the razor in the sink and climbed into the bath, holding an old towel. He pressed it onto the cuts and leaned back. He didn't want to go to bed when he would only stain the sheets, so he waited until the bleeding stopped, cleaned the cut carefully, and bandaged it.

It felt weird to not just leave the wound as it was. He didn't want it getting infected. He didn't want it getting worse. He didn't want it. He didn't want to hurt himself.

***

He didn't like cleaning up the next morning. There wasn't very much blood on the floor, but he had to throw away the towel, and he struggled to pick up the razor, even when it was only to clean off the dried blood and put it away.

It was a Saturday, so he got a bowl of the first cereal he found in the cupboard, then went back upstairs and fell asleep. He was worn out, mentally and physically, and he had no obligations on Saturdays.

He woke up again in the late afternoon, and started to write music. He didn't feel destructive or hopeless or quite as broken as he usually did when he was writing. It was calmer. Lyrics about how miserable he was set to a happy tune.

***

It was three years later and he had been clean for as long. The scars on his legs were far too straight to be accidental, memories of locked bathroom doors and a 'fake it 'til you break' attitude. Memories of a time when he was a skeleton, already long dead. He still hated them, still knew they looked ugly, that they showed everyone who cared to look how weak he was. At least he had achieved what he wanted from them. The two people he had dated since then had both given them unsure looks, tried to avoid looking at them. He didn't blame them, just tried harder to cover them up.

But now he was dating Josh, who looked at him like he was the moon. It threw him off, because he still didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve more cuts, sure, but he didn't deserve loving smiles and casual kisses either, didn't deserve someone who held his hand in public. But Josh hadn't seen the scars yet, so it made sense. He let it go because he knew it was coming, knew it was almost there when Josh was pushing up his shirt to show his rib cage, murmuring against his skin that he should take it off.

He knew it was coming when Josh undid the button on his jeans, and he loved Josh, and he would be lying if he said he didn't want to have sex with him, but he also didn't want Josh to stop giving him those happy looks. He didn't deserve them, but he _wanted_ them, he would miss them. He closed his eyes as Josh pulled off his jeans, started to take his boxers off too until Tyler heard his breath catch, felt him stop undressing him.

"Tyler?" he asked, thumb rubbing circles into the jutting hip bone.

"Yeah?" His eyes were still closed, and he could feel Josh leaning up, hovering a few centimetres above him. There was the feeling of warm, soft lips being pressed against his, gentle.

"Open your eyes, Ty," he said.

With some reluctance, Tyler did as he was told. Josh was looking into his eyes softly, and Tyler frowned, because there was no way Josh _hadn't_  seen the scars, but the expression was the same loving one as usual, albeit sadder than normal.

"When did you stop?" he asked.

Tyler shrugged, looking up at the ceiling. He wanted to close his eyes, but Josh had asked him to open them, so this was the next best thing.

"I'm proud of you," he said, so quiet, and Tyler must have misheard him, or maybe Josh just misunderstood.

"What?"

"I'm proud of you, Ty," he said, louder this time.

Tyler propped himself up on his elbows to look at Josh. "Why?" he asked. Josh had no reason to be proud, he was weak and ugly and disgusting. "I hurt myself. I'm covered in scars. I'm weak and ugly, Josh. You can tell that much from my scars."

They were probably both as confused as each other, but Josh looked _upset_ , too. Tyler wanted to apologise, didn't want Josh to be upset, but he held back. "You're not _weak_ , Tyler. You're so, so strong. You're strong and brave and beautiful. You've got these scars but you stopped. It's gotta be pretty hard to do that."

Tyler opened his mouth to protest, but Josh cut him off before he could. "Whatever you're about to say, you're wrong. You're strong, Tyler, because even though you started, you stopped," he said, pressing a kiss against one of the scars on his thighs. "I love you."

It wasn't until Josh hugged him, telling him it was alright and pressing more kisses and _you're beautiful_ 's and _you're so brave_ 's and _I love you_ 's against his head that Tyler realised he was crying. He should feel weak. He should feel weak and helplessly stupid, because he was crying about someone telling him he wasn't ugly, but he didn't feel like that. Amongst the sadness and the broken pieces, he felt happy.

He was happy because Josh didn't think he was ugly. Because he wasn't weak. Because he wasn't pathetic. Because he was so insanely in love with Josh, and it was difficult to hate himself when he knew that Josh felt the same way about him. He didn't believe that Josh would love something bad, and he smiled genuinely and kissed him firmly, stared him in the eyes when he confessed his love once again.

He was three years clean, and he was strong, and he was in love. He was _happy_.

**Author's Note:**

> *various unconvinced sounds*
> 
> writing blog [here](http://iktwabrokenbone.tumblr.com/ask) y'all. prompts are always welcome.


End file.
